Dear Kyle,
I'm writing to update you on what life has been like since you left us. It has been almost three months and while certain things are getting easier, your presence continues to loom large; your life a constant reminder of the joy and happiness you brought and your death a continual reminder of what could of and should of have been.
The pain and memory of your death, while fresh, feels like a lifetime ago. maybe it's because so much has purposefully changed that we forget just last Halloween you were dressed up as Beetlejuice.
Your namesake, Bubba, is doing well. As I type this, he's sitting at my feet working on the "Down" command. He just graduated from puppy training classes and we're happy to have him home after 2-1/2 weeks. It's odd to compare a 12-year-old boy to a dog, but he reminds us so much of you. He's friendly, loving and has a thick coat of wavy hair. And with long legs and a big head we laugh at how many physical traits you share. But don't worry, I promise I will never take him inside a Home Depot or on a plane. He is just a dog.
Your sister is doing quite well. She just tried out for two parts in the school play and found out she's going to be on the Pirates for softball this season. Her dance recital is a few months away and she was given a special part in one of her numbers. Last night we attended our third Daddy / Daughter Valentines Day Dance at Cokesbury. It reminded me a lot of dates I went on in high school: I paid for dinner, my date paid little or no attention to me and spent the evening talking with her girlfriends. But, instead of trying to buy beer at the end of the night she settled for a Ring Pop and a balloon and spent the remainder of her evening watching 'Dance Moms'. But while her life is seemingly business as usual, know that she misses and talks about you all the time. My assumption is that her grief will hit her as she gets older. I ask that when this time comes you allow both her and us the strength to support her journey.
Your mother is soldiering on as best as she can. While grief is a journey unique to each individual, it must be even more so for a mother. Your unbreakable, intrinsic bond is foreign to me, but I try my best to be empathetic. She's been sick this week, like everyone in Knoxville, but of course gets out of bed to get your sister ready for school, HIGH Fitness and lunch with her friends. She talks about and to you constantly about a variety of topics. She bought a new car (finally!) and is reading a lot of about grief, signs and the afterlife. She's looking for any lasting connection to...hoping for a vessel where she can give and receive messages to you. Prayer and faith in your eternal happiness are guiding her. She's also currently wearing a heart monitor at the direction of her cardiologist. It's a routine, precautionary measure as we search for answers to what may silently afflicted you. My guess is that we'll never get a definitive answer but we're seeking one, nonetheless. Please continue to visit her through dreams and signs, like the fact that she continually finds herself looking at her phone at "11:11" most days or having missed 11 text messages.
I went back to work on Monday. The timing was appropriate, and it has been a welcome respite from my grief. One the whole, my days are good, but certain moments - a song on the radio or a sports highlight trigger a visceral reaction without warning. I'm helping with the West baseball team this Spring as a dugout coach. Your teams first scrimmage was Tuesday night, and they played well against West Valley. The dugout just didn't have the same "juice" without you there, but it's a good group of ballplayers and even better kids. After the game they announced that they were retiring your #11 jersey. No one will ever wear that number again for West Middle School Baseball. Your jersey will hang in the dugout each game as a reminder to the love and passion you showed for the sport. I got our Tennessee baseball season tickets in the mail this week. I'm taking your sister to Opening Day next Friday. She'll get bored and want to leave by the top of the third inning, but it's better than not going at all. I contemplated selling my tickets for about 2 minutes before I realized that's not what you would have wanted. If you were still here, we'd be talking about this moment constantly and I couldn't stand to renounce something that brought us so much joy, even though it will be painful.
But things that matter are rarely easy. The discomfort I feel in doing certain activities like coaching your friends in baseball or writing this blog are a reminder that I am growing. I used to tell you, "The world doesn't revolve around your feelings. You are entitled to nothing." It's a direct, almost brutal thing to say to a child, but I think an important lesson on where you stand as a human being. I find it hard to heed my own advice at times, thinking that at some point I have to feel better in accepting your death. But like you, I am not entitled to happiness. I have to earn my happiness and do that by reminding myself of all the good you did in your short time here.
Almost $20K has been donated to Fellowship Church in your memory. It's an awesome testament to you and the triumph of the human spirit. Money has poured in from all over the country from friends, family and complete strangers. Many of the names I don't recognize, but I'm sure you do. You knew everyone.
The phrase, "It just sucks" gets thrown around quite a bit these days. Your mother and I will be talking and one of us will start to cry and the other will say, "I know, it just sucks." It's a crass way to describe grief, but also very befitting and very on brand for our household. Words were never minced; hearts were worn on sleeves and volumes could reach deafening volumes at times. But we always knew where we stood and always on the bedrock of love. That foundation still stands, yet it is hardened.
I told you mom just last week, "I miss his voice. I even miss arguing with him." To which she replied, "I know. It just sucks."
I write this post as a way to update you, but my hope is that you already know as you watch over and protect us. That my hands and thoughts are being guided by you. The irony in your death is that it opened my mind to the possibility of life after death, for which i am eternally grateful. And my wish is that someday we can be together and read it and you could tell me, "If you had really known what came after death, would you have been upset for me?"
Now that would definitely not suck.
I love you. I miss you. Come see me soon, Mooney.
Love, Dad
💚💚💚
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